


The Seduction of Science

by Laylah



Category: Echo Bazaar
Genre: Body Horror, Community: kink_bingo, Gen, Other, The Correspondence, Writing on Skin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-04
Updated: 2011-06-04
Packaged: 2017-10-20 03:08:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/208124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Then, because you would not have come so far in your quest for knowledge without a healthy degree of ruthlessness, you ask whether he might care to indulge with you in exploring some of the more sensual mysteries hidden in the Correspondence's script.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Seduction of Science

Years from now, when these exploits are but a distant memory and you are penning the memoir by which the Neath might remember you, you will tell your gentle readers that you cannot recall what first led you to consider this particular escapade: perhaps the fault lay with the obliging devil who answered your questions at the Brass Embassy when Virginia was indisposed, or perhaps it was unwholesome speculation from the more jaded patrons of Clathermont's tattoo parlor, or perhaps even an alarming rumor repeated in the dark of a carnival ride as it creaked through the dank abyss beneath the Neath. Certainly you will never entertain the notion that this wickedness sprang fully formed from your own imagination.

You meet the young gentleman at a soiree in Veilgarden, the sort of affair at which the honey flows freely, the wine even more so, and every soul—and soulless—in attendance wears some hint of scandal, the most crucial accessory of the season. The young gentleman is one you've seen at similar occasions for the last month or so; he's handsome in a neatly finished way, and his conversation is pleasant enough, if lacking in real fire. When it becomes clear that he is courting your attention in particular, for a moment you are impressed with his daring if nothing else: Has he not heard what rumor has to say about you? Does he not know the danger that accompanies your person? Perhaps not, if he is but newly arrived to Fallen London; surely you were yourself once untried and taken with the wonders the Neath had to offer—but you cannot believe that you were ever so reckless, so callow, as this youth.

Well. He will not remain so for long.

Prisoner's honey soothes the inflamed conscience, and perhaps it is that lulling effect that you will blame for the direction in which you guide the gently meandering conversation: to your studies in the Correspondence, and the arcane yet exquisite temptations hidden in those sigils' coils. At the first mention of pleasure, as you suspected, the young gentleman's eyes light up; while his flirtations were not precisely subtle before, they are now downright forward. He will have no-one to blame but himself.

He suggests that you adjourn to a more private venue; you are the one to suggest his lodgings, since you have every intention of indulging the worst of your curiosity tonight and it would be a shame to put your own treasures at risk. Your young gentleman thinks nothing of it, indeed seems delighted that you would be so bold. As you walk arm in arm in the moonish light, you murmur to him of the seductive beauty you've found in the Neath's furthest reaches, the breathtaking delight of uncovering secrets that the common man has never imagined. Then, because you would not have come so far in your quest for knowledge without a healthy degree of ruthlessness, you ask whether he might care to indulge with you in exploring some of the more sensual mysteries hidden in the Correspondence's script. His hands tremble with eagerness as he unlocks the door to his rooms.

In the amber glow of a single lamp, you undress him, marveling quietly at his lack of scars; he's seen little of the Hill and certainly never chanced the docks—all the better to make a flawless canvas for your endeavors. He provides the paints and brush; perhaps he fancies himself an aspiring artist, or perhaps he has merely been occupying himself with the admittedly pleasant diversion of seducing one. You provide the arcane knowledge, and the steady hand with which to apply your unwholesome skill.

He shivers at the first touch of the brush, gooseflesh rising along his skin, and you promise him that he will not long remain chilled. Sadly, you can spare little attention to tease and flatter him, if you are to correctly form any of the complex characters of the Correspondence on so unstable a medium as a live and shivering body. You speak to him as you work, instead, telling him how you've deciphered the layers of meaning in each stroke: how this curve, tangent now to his collar bone, intersects with that jagged line, the one pointing toward his sternum, to suggest power and yielding or perhaps deception; how the final arc of the character enlivens the rest—and oh, enliven it does. You've never seen a single letter squirm so avidly before. Perhaps the connection to a living body is what has been missing from Correspondence studies in general.

Your young gentleman writhes under your ministrations; he tells you breathlessly how he can feel the symbol moving, how it seems to make his blood run hotter. You will have to remember this in detail, and make more mundane notes when you've returned to your own lodgings. For now, you concentrate on the work in front of you: the second sigil, painted on the opposite side of his chest to balance the first, is one of the most carnal concepts you've been able to uncover in your study of the language, suggesting the coils of serpents and the warmth of dark places. He trembles at each brush stroke, his skin flushing around the letters, his flesh rising to the occasion in a most encouraging manner.

The room most certainly seems warmer now than it had when you began, and there is something untoward about the way the shadows fall on your companion's face, but no matter; you have seen far worse in your explorations, and you expect you will again before your studies are mastered. He pleads for you not to stop, eloquence deserting him entirely as he fumbles for words to describe the exquisite torment of wearing such potent symbols on his flesh.

You oblige him. You are nothing if not obliging.

With the third character, laid just below the curve of his ribs, high in the consumptive hollow of his belly, it becomes impossible to ignore the effects: playing host to these symbols of power is taxing his body beyond ordinary limits. Still he offers no complaint—indeed, far from it; could he perform like this on command, Sinning Jenny would make him a star. With the fourth character, his joints seem to come unstrung, as if he were a marionette whose strings had lost their tension; with the fifth, you are nearly certain that the effects will be irreparable. Still your companion urges you on, through the newly elastic shape of his throat. You have come too far to allow scruples to stay your hand now.

His...hand...strays as you attempt a sixth character, knocking your hand aside in the midst of the final stroke. The effect is both immediate and disastrous. First that character flares with unholy light, and then like a terrible domino sequence it spreads to the others, a spontaneous eruption of flame and the noxious scent of sulfur. Your erstwhile gentleman attempts to rise, still changing, even as the fire consumes his protean form.

You are forced to make an inglorious escape through a second-story window, fleeing as his terrible howls follow you into the night. Time now to hurry back to your lodgings, where you might patch your wounds and begin to arrange for an alibi, and then make some very detailed notes in the process of avoiding sleep.

And next time you attempt such a thing, you will make certain your research assistant is properly restrained.


End file.
